


i can’t be the high and mighty

by bruised_fruit



Series: unhealed and rotting [2]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Suicidality, mentioned self injury, messiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruised_fruit/pseuds/bruised_fruit
Summary: It’s not like he’s trying to punish her, or satisfy some sick urge to manipulate her into a better apology. He’s just tired.





	i can’t be the high and mighty

**Author's Note:**

> title from girlyman's "invite me in"

The ground feels unsteady beneath his feet, but the floors here are wooden, sturdy. He’d like to return to the ship, or to the womb. 

They won, and it’s finally over. Davenport never let himself imagine this outcome, the Hunger completely gone and his family divided. He isn’t their captain anymore, isn’t hers, isn’t anything. Not after what she did to him. Not after he pushed her away so completely that she took the mission into her own hands and left him to rot. 

There’s no point to living now, and there never really was, though he’d always been good at convincing himself otherwise. He can’t fight anymore. There’s nothing good in this life, and it hurts to think of what’s become of him. His safest space for the past decade was a stark bedroom, decorated the only way his voidfished brain could tolerate. Or with Lucretia. He always felt better, ironically, with the strange human who stuck around the longest.

And Lucretia-- Lucretia is right in front of him, of course she is, because where else would either of them be? She’d retreated to her office as soon as she could. 

She is very beautiful. She aged without him, and every look at her face is like being gutted with one of Taako’s kitchen knives. A reminder of what she did, that the two of them were so broken she could never talk to him, he pushed her to it… And in spite of it all, he wants her on top of him again, warm and soft and breath on his face, hands on his chest and stomach and in his cunt, her mouth on him, the decade forgotten, the century and two years of hell just as behind them. 

He tries to ground himself, digging his fingernails into his palm. She’d let so many die, or it was his fault too. But she’d nearly died so many times. She’d played with his entire crew’s lives. With him. 

And none of that matters, not really. They won. Her spell, her hard work, her sacrifices, and now it’s over. Because of her. 

“Captain,” she says, her voice uncertain. He remembers, jarringly, the look of panic and desperation in her eyes when he’d found her on the kitchen floor in the cottage they’d stayed in before the moonbase. She’d let him touch her for once, and he’d cradled her head, confused and too dumb to be terrified about the chill of her skin, to know what it meant to find her in a pool of her own blood other than that it was bad, something was wrong.

“Director,” he responds, like their gentle back and forths in the ship’s kitchen, convincing each other to sleep, to eat, to use their window of alone time for themselves, and she smiles a little in spite of herself. She looks exhausted--she’s covered in sweat, that massive spell not just a mental strain but a physical one--but she lets him near, only tensing when he’s right at her desk, right in front of her. 

He’s never stood here before, he realizes. He used to be at her side. He rests his arms on the desk, watches her glance nervously to her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice quiet, and he ignores that. 

“Well,” he begins awkwardly, “no more Hunger, that’s good, right?” She stiffens, and he smiles, an attempt at disarming. 

He’s never been good at this. But who cares? He shouldn’t fucking care anymore. He always wasted time and energy caring. And pretending not to. He can’t feign strength for her anymore. “I’d like my ring back… I only have so many spell slots.” 

She nods, unlocking a drawer in her desk. She hands him a small bag, and he pulls the ring out, slips it on. The Alter Self doesn’t really do much for him, but if he’s doing this, he’d rather die with it on.

Lucretia looks at him appraisingly, like he’d said it aloud. But then she says, “I didn’t mean for it to play out like this,” and he realizes the look was more of cautious deliberation. Something flares up in him, something repulsive, and he quashes it, and he looks back at her like he’s never felt anything before in his life, and he remembers being her captain, hearing that she felt safer on their ship, hunted by some eldritch abomination, than she ever did back on their homeworld. He can’t bring himself to lash out at her, but he can’t get rid of his rage either. 

“Oh, me neither,” he says. 

She bites her lip. She looks familiar as much as she looks achingly different, and he can’t look away. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again, and he steps back. Hearing the words from her only makes him surer that he needs to be gone. 

It’s not a matter of cowardice. It’s not like he’s trying to punish her, or satisfy some sick urge to manipulate her into a better apology. He’s just tired.

“I’d better go,” he tells her. 

“Wait.” 

Davenport stares at her. He could just turn around and leave. He might. 

“I-- don’t you want the rest of your things? I packed-- I packed your clothes and personal items, from, um, before.” She looks at her lap again, her shoulders high. 

“Don’t want them,” he says, remembering his loved ones’ words, realizing that Lucretia’s probably read those letters as many times as he has at this point. 

“Then let me at least help you settle, Drew, please--” He meets her eye, and she stops herself, drawing back.

He takes a breath. “You don’t need to help me anymore.” 

Lucretia clasps her hands, bites her lip. 

“I’m happy,” he says, and like a mantra he thinks: _we won. It’s over._ He watches as a billion things flit through her mind, as her face contorts like she’s holding some of them in. There’s something about her face that he’s trying to relish as much as possible, while he can. He wants, apropos of nothing other than being in the room with her, to kiss her. 

“I…” She knows he’s not happy, but he wasn’t trying to put on a front, or lie. He wasn’t trying to soften her guilt. They both know what she did, the scope and scale. Or they’re starting to. They’re on the same page. 

She frowns. He watches her face, watches her avoid his eyes. 

“I should have talked to you,” she says finally. 

Or maybe she’d known how weak he was, and she’d acted accordingly. 

He remembers coming to her bed, just holding her while she cried. And he’d felt nothing. Bad, maybe, but he hadn’t cried, hadn’t truly felt, even through months of the war his own crew had started. They’d caused the deaths, their cross to bear, certainly, but it’ll be okay, honey, think how much worse it could be, think of why we’re doing this, you don’t have to cry, I’ll hold Magnus to it, it’s working so far, it’ll be okay, Lucy. Everything out of his ass, and she’d looked at him numbly, quietly, like a stranger most days, and he at her like something to stare at, enamoured, till he’d wither away. 

And when they’d touched those last few years, what had she been thinking? He doesn’t remember what he’d been thinking, not at all, other than that he loved her, that he’d wanted her to feel good, wanted so badly to comfort her.

Foolish.

“We talked plenty.” 

She exhales shakily, and he leaves, and she doesn’t try to stop him. 

Is he in shock? He feels confident now, more than ever. He misses the way her skin and her hands and her mouth felt on him.

Should he have said goodbye? He’s certain she’d come with him, and that’s almost more disgusting than anything he’s done to her, his infinite failings, the miserable life he inflicted on his crew. The pitiful excuse for living that the two of them slogged through over the past decade.

Or maybe he should have thanked her. On his hands and knees, or prone. There’s nothing he could say that would change anything, no angle he can go at her with that will soften the hurt for either of them. He put the burden so squarely on her shoulders, and even now he’s putting her in charge, wanting her to make every decision, seeking escape from the reality of what the two of them have been through. 

There’s an odd, twisted part of him grieving the urgency of recovering the Light, the terror of running from the Hunger, the constant of their journey, and he’ll kill it. A part of him grieves being their captain, and he’ll kill it, too. And then, of course, a part of him grieves her, his foolish image of her, everything he imagined the two of them had together. That’s the part he needs gone desperately. He could cope with everything else, as long as it goes away eventually.

But her…

But wanting her, _needing_ her…

He was an awful lover. He had to have been, for her to do something like that. 

A part of him wishes he could beg her to do it for him. Her spell, her knife, her hands... He’d make her carry the weight, again and again. 

He walks to the edge of the base, and no one stops him. No one even looks at him. It’s empty out here, and he’s just her captain-turned-butler, a bastard, an idiot. 

He’ll kill it.

Neverwinter is below him, scarred and ugly. 

He did that. Lup and Barry and the rest of the crew, but him most of all. This world is theirs now, and he did so much bad, unleashed evil and destruction upon it, mostly with his eyes closed. 

He looks at it, just looks, just tries not to imagine her, to feel her again. Tries to stifle his need for her, persistent and overpowering. He’ll focus on the scars on the planet below instead.

His mind wanders back to her. He doesn’t remember the last time he touched her. He needs her hands, he needs her touch. 

Kill it. 

It’s repulsive, all of this. But it’ll be over, finally. 

Maybe it’ll hurt. Maybe he’ll regret it the second he leaves the moonbase. He doesn’t care. He just wants to be dead. 

He sits. He illusions himself invisible, and he scoots closer to the edge, dangling his legs over. The base is high up, but he doesn’t feel high up, not really. It’s like bringing the ship to a new cycle and seeing there’s no place to safely land, and knowing the cycle will be hell. Endless stress. The twins all pent up energy and Merle mourning life and the humans feeding off of each other and of course Lucretia feeding off of him, his misery and anxiety amplified a billion times when she saw it, when he put it on her, he always did. Why couldn’t he just be strong for her? He grabs his arms, his head spinning. 

It’s cold here. 

She was always very warm. He hates that. He could kill the memory of her, right now. Her arms, her breath, her body… her words, every lie she ever told him, everything he was so desperate to believe from her. 

He wanted everything she ever gave him. He let her do so much for him. Everything from her, everything she could offer him. 

Death won’t give him the relief he needs. He needs her, and that’s disgusting. 

And so, right on time, she finds him. 

She calls his name, and she sounds frantic. He looks down at Neverwinter, imagines the freedom, the nothingness, the bliss of death. He was responsible, he worked hard. He was _good,_ wasn’t he? 

But it’s Lucretia. Something sinks in him, as numb as he’s feeling right now. He _was_ good, good enough, right? Just not for her, and that’s all that’s ever really mattered. 

“I’m here,” he says, and he turns as she sinks to her knees.

“I panicked, I’m sorry, I-- I saw you just-- you disappeared,” she says, her voice shaking. 

He dispels the illusion and scowls at her. She collapses forward at the sight of him. 

“I told you I don’t need you anymore.” 

But when Lucretia reaches for him, he doesn’t shy away. She pulls him to her, away from the edge, and she feels bony, frail. But still, she clutches him close, her arms solid and warm around him, and it feels safe. He needed this desperately. And it’s terrifying to be touched this way again. Bile rises in his throat, but he doesn’t pull away.

She draws back, looking apologetic. That look on her face, he hates it, but he can feel the heat radiating off of her, and he can see her, no static in his way, and her hands are splayed on his back still. She feels so _good._ His heart pounds.

“I got scared, Andrew,” she breathes, and he doesn’t think; he’s not thinking at all, really, so he presses his mouth to hers and kisses her, slow and gentle, and she kisses back after a moment.

He draws away slightly, just to stare at her, and he wonders if she knows how badly he wanted to jump. He still wants it. But not in front of her, and not behind her back, not ever. She wouldn’t like it. It could really hurt her. 

She closes her eyes, and he wipes a tear from her cheek. She’s old, wearing some ornate floor length dress under her robes, carrying herself stiffly. His stomach sinks. His Lucretia is long dead, if she was ever alive to begin with. But he wants to kiss her again, and he wants her to know that he could never walk away. 

“Take your things, please. I can’t keep-- can’t keep carrying them.” 

“You don’t have to,” he says. “But it’s hardly a matter of life or death.”

She stiffens, and he almost grins at that. So perceptive, his journal-keeper. But instead, he kisses her again, brief and light. It’s like he’s stealing something from her, but she doesn’t push him away. He could indulge in this for as long as she lets him.

“I didn’t think we’d ever do it,” he says quietly, running his hands over her, and she makes a noise like she’s choking. The Hunger gone, and all he wants is the woman he can’t have anymore.

But Lucretia’s grip on him shifts, lowers. She drags him nearer. 

“I was overconfident. I needed you…” He tilts his head, and she goes on, “I thought I could do it on my own, and I thought I could be a leader. Or I was in denial.”

“I’m proud of you, Lucretia,” he whispers. “You’re amazing.”

“Shut up,” she says, and he laughs into her neck, casts Invisibility on the both of them. 

She tenses as Davenport runs his hands over her, and he kisses her throat. He hears her breath catch, feels her react. He wonders when she’ll stop him. She always had a stronger will than him. 

He can’t tell what he’s feeling right now, only that he needs her, anger and sorrow simmering just below the surface. 

“Don’t know where to go,” he breathes, and he licks her, and she whines, exposing more of herself for him. She’s so sweaty, but he missed her, all of her. And all he can do is antagonize her. “I was just gonna kill myself. Should I, honey?” 

“No.” Her voice is so quiet. He shifts, and she makes a little gasping noise, her hands moving lower on his back. 

“I want to… I need you.” He doesn’t care how desperate he sounds. He has no reason to hide it from her. 

She pulls him closer. “I need-- absolution.” He laughs, reedy and manic-sounding, and pulls her into another kiss. “I never stopped needing you, Drew,” she whispers, and he moves against her again. 

“You want me to stay alive for you, Lucy?” She makes a strained noise, and he grins, though she can’t see it. “Want to have me again?”

“Shut up, please,” she says, and he presses his body to hers, wanting to get as close as possible.

He hears a little intake of breath. He wants to push closer, further. 

“You seem like you do.”

She casts Zone of Silence, breathes a quiet, “Stop,” and he almost laughs. 

“I was gonna jump off,” he tells her, and she pulls him down. A hand firm on his chest, another on his belly.

“You’ve suffered enough,” Lucretia breathes. “Please--” 

“What were you gonna do, when I left?” he asks, cutting her off. 

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, then: “I really don’t really know. I wasn’t expecting to-- I thought the Hunger might get me, or one of you. Maybe I was hoping--” 

“Just now,” he breathes, relishing the idea of diving in front of a Magic Missile for her, hanging onto her voice. 

“Wanted to make sure you got somewhere safe,” she whispers. “Wanted to die, once everyone got settled. Wanted you, but it’s wrong, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” Davenport says, smiling as her hands run over him, “and I recall you telling me to stop.” 

Lucretia’s quiet, and her hands settle at his sides. “We’re invisible and silenced… You could do anything short of fucking me on the edge of my moonbase.”

He snorts, but considers her words as she moves her hands away. “What does ‘needing’ me mean, Lucretia?”

“I… miss my lover,” she says carefully. “In moments of weakness, I want you, very badly.”

She lies back, and Davenport lies down on his side with her, pressing as close as he can. As close as she’ll let him. 

“Are you feeling weak now?” he asks.

“Oh, Drew...” she says, her voice quiet. A hand runs over his back and settles at the base of his neck. “Let’s find you a nice place to settle down. A job, or a hobby. I wanted to give you a life here. Surely you’ve had enough of sitting by my side.”

“Not enough,” he says, and he wants to dispel the illusion and get a good look at her face, but he doesn’t. “I could never have enough of you. We’ve spent over a lifetime together, and I just want more. We could be happy, this time.” He shifts. “What’s the point of living if I’m away from you?”

There’s a pause, then Lucretia says, “Do you mean that, Drew? You can’t even fathom living a life without me? It could be good, really good for you.”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he mumbles, and she heaves a sigh. 

“Just don’t die on me.” 

Dropping down to Neverwinter tempts him, but so does she. 

“Likewise,” Davenport says, and he sits up and dispels Invisibility. He looks at her laying in the grass, fancy robed and a little grimy, and much older than she should be, and he helps her sit up. “Sorry if… I wasn’t trying to put it all on you,” he says. It doesn’t feel like enough. He could spend the rest of their lives apologizing to her. 

“No, it’s-- I missed you. I told you, I still… want you. But it’s wrong.” 

“It is,” he says. “We ought to be above indulging in every desire, huh?” He stands, walking over to the edge again to look down. Lucretia makes a noise, and he turns to look at her. “I just wanted to look,” he says, but he walks back over to her and lets her wrap her arms around him. He wants to kiss her forehead, to kiss her on the mouth again, and he might. He’s not the man he used to be. He doesn’t need to be the strong one anymore. 

She places a hand on his cheek. “It’s wrong,” she says quietly, “but I’m selfish enough to want you to stay here with me. I’m selfish enough to want to kiss you, just one more time--” He bends to kiss her, their mouths pressing together only briefly before he pulls away, her hand still on him. She bows her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” It’s all he can say. 

“You know I can’t have you stay.” Lucretia bites her lip, lifting her head to look at him. “I know you,” she says. “It would be so bad for you.”

“Is that what you’re apologizing for?” 

“I… have a lot to apologize for,” she says. She’s looking at him, at least. Davenport tries to school his face into something gentle, open. 

“Not anymore, not to me, Lucretia.” He can’t tell if he’s lying. 

“I don’t know about that.”

He rests his arms on her shoulders. “One more?” 

Lucretia exhales audibly, then nods. They kiss, and her face is taut when they pull apart. “No more,” she tells him. “I’m already going to hell.” He wraps his arms around her. 

“I missed kissing you,” Davenport says, as if he’d even known to miss it. She’s quiet. “Let me help you up.” 

She stands with his help, and she looks down at him. “Thank you.” She shifts her weight away from him. “Let me help you get settled. This whole world, and you can do anything…” He watches her expression change. He’s been clear about what he wants. “Please, Drew?” 

He walks with her, stepping carefully. “I’ll travel,” he says. “I’ll see the world. How about that?” 

“It sounds— wonderful for you,” she says, and when she looks down she’s smiling, a little sadly. He’d hardly seen anything of this world during their decade. She knows that. 

“And you’ll stay with the Bureau?”

“...Yes.”

Davenport nearly scoffs, but Lucretia’s expression stops him. 

“What if I want you to travel with me?” he tries instead.

“You know I can’t,” she says. She sounds so weary, even with the apocalypse behind them. 

“What if I want another kiss, before I go?”

“I spoil you,” she whispers, drawing a laugh out of him. It’s not funny. 

When they reach her office, the few prying eyes behind them, Lucretia sits behind her desk again. She seems relieved to be back in her position of power. They really are alike. 

Davenport sits across from her. “It’ll be a while until we see each other again.”

“Will you stay safe?” 

He bristles. “Will you?”

“You don’t need to be worried about me.”

“Someone has to be, Lucretia. You’re not invincible. Your job is hard, no matter how competent you are. No matter how strong…”

“You of all people know I’m not,” she says. 

He shifts in his chair. Yes, he’d seen how she struggled and fought with herself during the decade. But she’d never stopped pushing, as hard as things were for her. “Then let me be concerned. Or am I not allowed? I’ve seen how much you take. Even the way you carry yourself must weigh down on you.”

She frowns, then says carefully, “If it helps, I try to model my behavior after yours. You were most dignified.”

“Dignified?” 

She takes in his expression, and says, “Maybe not during the decade, but the way you carried yourself before-- the way you led--”

“I had to handle myself a certain way,” Davenport says, disgruntled. “I was the captain. And I’m a gnome.”

“I know,” Lucretia says meekly. She looks to her lap. “What I said still stands... You always epitomized leadership and poise, aside from when I... incapacitated you.”

The reality of their situation washes over him again at her words. “You let me look like a fool for so long.” He lets bitterness creep into his voice, and he resents it. It’s not as if he needs to make his anger known. He’s not a petty man, and she can read him anyway. 

“Yet you claim to still want me as a lover,” she says, and a little smile tugs at her lips. “So headstrong over something that could only hurt the both of us. You need to process and heal, and away from me.”

“Shut up,” he says. “I agreed to leave. You don’t get to dictate the rest.” 

Her smile disappears. “You haven’t agreed to stay safe yet. Can you at least do that for me?”

“I won’t kill myself,” he says. “And you?”

“I have a job to do here. I’ll be fine.” She meets Davenport’s eyes, careful. “I’m not saying we can’t see each other again.”

“Just that you don’t want to see me.”

“...I can’t handle it,” she says quietly. “You know I still want you. But we’re both adults, and-- and we both know you shouldn’t stay with me any longer.”

His shoulder tense. “What does healing look like, for you?”

“Probably different from your version of it,” she says, smiling gently. She looks so tired. He can see the frustration and weariness under her patience, her kindness. 

“I get it,” he says. “But just say you want me gone. I can take it.”

“You’re not taking anything. It’s hardly as if you’d stay my butler--”

“And I don’t wanna run the BOB with you.”

“Exactly. So enjoy yourself for once. See the world!” She smacks her hands down on the desk. “We saved it! This is our home now.” 

They stare at each other in silence for a few moments, then Davenport chuckles. “You can be so earnest sometimes,” he says. “I’ll admit, it sounds appealing. I’m sorry you can’t come with me, though. Our savior, spending the rest of her life working behind a desk.”

The words come out half-mocking, and Lucretia flushes. “I’ll admit, sometimes it feels like a lifetime of this wouldn’t fix what harm I’ve inflicted on the world…”

“All of us. We all made relics,” he says, and she shakes her head.

“I could have stopped the Relic Wars from ever happening. I wasn’t strong enough.”

He sighs. A part of him has always known that Lucretia framed it this way, especially with all the self-sacrificing of the decade. “You don’t have to take on all of our sins.”

She looks away. “I have to,” she says quietly. “That’s better than letting the world suffer... I love you all. I love you so much, Drew.” She meets his eyes, slowly. “I have to fix what I let you do. And you-- you need to fix what I did to you, I suppose. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know that, Lucretia…” He’s not lying. She’d only wanted to do good, and he and Lup were caught in the crossfire. Everything she did was meant to ease the burden that the crew had felt. Everything she continues to do is for their sake, really. He hates her reasoning, but he knows she’ll cling to it for as long as she’s the Director.

She may have pulled him from the edge, but the feeling of wanting to die washes over him again. There’s an ache deep in the pit of his stomach, and he feels numb. Lucretia’s brow creases.

“I can’t fix you,” she says, her voice very soft.

His mouth goes dry. “I don’t need you to.” She watches him. She looks worried, or maybe contemplative. “I’ll just go. Try to make a life here…” He trails off, and she bows her head. He just wants this to be over. “I don’t know what it would look like,” he admits. 

“Me neither... I just want you to be happy, even if it takes a while.” She rubs her eyes. “Let me help you?”

He’s done resisting. His little tantrum had only confirmed that he still needs her help. Still needs _her._ She’s only human, but she always saves him. 

“Okay, Lucretia.” 

She won, but neither of them know if that’s a good thing. 

Davenport watches Lucretia shift through some papers on her desk. “I have some connections in Luskan’s shipyard… I can tell them to expect you tomorrow?”

“Whatever you want,” he says, and she sags in her chair. He watches her, detached, as she straightens up again and picks up a paper. Clears her throat. 

“Is that a yes?”

She sounds fake, carefully put together. He remembers the desperate, panicked look on her face earlier, the way relief had washed over it when he’d showed himself to her. He remembers still earlier, her frantic plea to the crew, her insistence that they stop the Hunger her way. He knows she’s soft and raw inside, and he knows she’s trying to keep herself poised, feelings all tucked away for him. 

“If I need to be gone,” he says. A part of him just wants to get away. She’s right, really. He’ll never be able to process any of this until he’s away from her. And after leading for so long, he needs a break from responsibility, a chance to see what else there is to life, to finally see what this world offers. It’s been so long since he’s done anything for himself. But doesn’t she need a break too? 

Lucretia puts the paper down. “You do, Andrew. And maybe… if things feel different one day, you can come back.”

“When you’ve stopped feeling guilty.”

“When you’ve stopped hating me,” she says quietly, and he scoffs, but doesn’t argue. He’s hardly been making any of this easier for her. 

“Just don’t punish yourself on my account,” he says. 

“I-- okay.” She lets out a breath and touches the paper in front of her. “Let me make this call for you. I just want to make sure you’ll be okay.”

Davenport nods, and stands from the chair, still separated from her by her desk. She eyes him warily. “Thank you,” he says, and maybe he means it. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you're interested in reading this fic to the left, here's [this.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19792603)
> 
> i feel really soft about this one... thanks for reading


End file.
